Flowers of Hope
by Jennifer Pak
Summary: It had been eight months since Sherlock had jumped and John had told himself he would always believe in the consulting detective but he's slowly losing his faith. One drunken night opens his eyes and gives him hope for one last miracle.


**Title:** Flowers of Hope

**Word Count:** ~ 1,100

**Summary:** It had been eight months since Sherlock had jumped and John had told himself he would always believe in the consulting detective but he's slowly losing his faith. One drunken night opens his eyes and gives him hope for one last miracle.

**A/N: **My first attempt at writing Sherlock so please be kind and let me know what you think.

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><p>It had been eight months, twelve days and six hours since Sherlock had jumped, not that John would admit to counting. Despite what people had said the pain was still raw and time was not healing his wounds. John moved through life on auto pilot, he couldn't remember what he spent his days doing, it was all just a blur of a life he was too distant to live. Everyone was slowly moving on and despite himself his faith began to fail, with one question always on his mind.<p>

_What if it was all true?_

There were only two kinds of days without Sherlock, bad days and worse days. Today was a worse day and he found himself in a quiet bar in the middle of the night. He couldn't say how much he'd had to drink, but he didn't think it was that many, when a young woman, who already reeked of alcohol, threw herself onto the stool next to him.

She sat there for a moment, swaying a bit, before she ordered. A bottle of vodka and shot glass was left in front of her and she toyed with the empty glass in her hand for a long time.

"You know, memories are funny things" she slurred out looking at John from the corner of her eye.

John didn't say anything and finished his beer, ordering another. The drunk woman dropped some money on to the bar.

"It's on me. Obee…Olbi…Obligation free" she managed eventually.

"Yeah thanks" he muttered.

"Memories are funny" she repeated, not bothering to pour a shot and took several large gulps from the bottle.

"You know why?" she asked.

John decided he must have been a bit drunker than he thought because against his better judgment he responded.

"I don't actually."

"Cause your brain is trying to be clever. It fills in the gaps for you. But gaps are important" she paused to take another swig of vodka.

"Gaps tell you more than…not gaps. You know. You think you know what's happened so your memories just fill in the gaps…but…gaps are important. Really important!" she banged her hand down on the bar "You know."

John didn't but muttered something that she took as confirmation.

"They say only believe half of what you say and none of what you hear, you know, magicians and fairy tales. Tricks, you have to be careful or you get caught" she declared firmly and pouring out a shot only to play with the glass again. There was a silence between them but it didn't last long.

"I know you. You're that bloke, the clever one's mate. If it's any consti…" she screwed up her face in concentration, "Consolation! Yes, if it's any consolation I don't believe the papers either. Not that I believe anything the papers say. Lying bastards the lot of them. Vultures! Animals!"

Her voice went quiet and John strained to hear, "Feeding on the seeds of doubt and pity and pain. The world is falling far away and we never see it crash but we feel time stop. But the gaps, the gaps are where we find our salvation" she kept muttering to herself and slid off the stool. She swayed a bit and tried to leave but John's brain slowly caught up with what she'd said.

"Wait…" she fell back on the bar and looked at him expectantly, or maybe she was feeling a bit queasy, it was hard to tell.

"Who are you?"

She paused, "I'm…I'm no one" and before he could stop her she stumbled away.

John tried to follow but he was too slow and by the time he got outside she was gone. If he'd been just a little faster he would have seen a well know black car pull up and take her away. Rather than return to his beer, he headed home.

In the back of that well know black car the woman sat scrubbing her face. All sense of drunkenness gone from her demeanour except the strong stench of alcohol.

"I need a shower" she declared eventually, "Vodka?" she offered, waving the bottle at the other passenger.

"No thank you" Mycroft replied distastefully.

"Oh relax" she sighed.

"Payment will be in your account by morning" he told her briskly in a tone that usually ended conversations.

"Don't be like that," she scolded, "Consider that one on the house, poor man could use a bit hope"

"Doesn't everyone" he said sadly to himself.

"Seeds of doubt, the weeds of our mind; but all weeds have flowers, these flowers of hope. Grow wild along the hills and valleys of his mind. Oh flowers of hope, flowers of salvation. May each petal bring forth a new day. And he shall wait, with flowers on the table in his mind." She recited wistfully as the city drifted past the tinted windows.

John's hazy mind got him home to Baker Street. He still had a key and Mrs Hudson had said he could come home whenever he pleased. John had politely declined, the flat was empty without him, but John's drunken mind didn't seem to care as he stumbled to his old room.

Before he passed out on his bed he was struck with a thought about Sherlock, like he always was, but this was different. A feeling he couldn't quite place, like something was missing. _A Gap!_ The woman from the bar yelled in his head.

He wasn't really in a state to feel as his brain connected the dots he didn't know were there. There was doubt, a gap in his memories. John had never seen Sherlock hit the ground, he'd missed the last few floors of the fall. _Magic tricks and fairy tales_, just because he thought he saw Sherlock die didn't mean he was. There was _hope_, a feeling John had thought he'd lost, suddenly back. It slipped into his fuzzy thoughts without any warning or fanfare, a quiet hope that maybe Sherlock could pull off one last miracle.

The next morning John's hangover ate at his mind and he ached. He must have drunk more than he thought. Returning to the kitchen, to find some aspirin he didn't feel the rush of overwhelming grief. The sight of Sherlock's skull, the letters jack knifed to the mantle, gave him…comfort.

John couldn't remember much of the previous night, but he suddenly had the urge to buy flowers, so he did. Flowers for Mrs Hudson, for Sherlock's grave, for the mantle, for the receptionist at work. Flowers, kept fresh and replaced often. The sight of the flowers made him feel better. He didn't know why, and honestly he didn't care. If flowers were what he needed to make every day a little more bearable, then he'd keep buying flowers until Sherlock came back. John knew he would, another mystery from that night, but somehow he knew. Sherlock would come back and until that day, flowers would keep him sane.


End file.
